Empty-sounding promises die on limbs of deadened trees.
Echoing forever down trunks, repeating phrases of sound
endlessly.
Jarring memories in vases of time, watering them at
inopportune hours, so they may live bittersweetly and
happily forever.
Bubbling into atmospheres of archaic cloud formations,
stretching themselves elastically into many years to come.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem